L.A. Wars Read online

  Hawker could hear them plainly.

  “Who the fuck was that guy, cuz?”

  “Goddamn if I know, man.”

  “Said he was the fuckin’ devil! Shit!”

  “The way he busted heads and disappeared, I ’bout believe it.”

  “Did you see that shit, cuz? Pweff! Bunch of smoke, and the motherfucker was gone.”

  “Bad dude, man, bad dude. We gotta call an ambulance or something.”

  “You call the ambulance, cuz. I’m gettin’ the hell outta here!”

  Hawker took the electronic detonator from his pocket.

  The liquid he had squirted on the side of the building was Astrolite. Manufactured by the Explosives Corporation of America, it was still being used experimentally by the United States Army as a replacement for land mines. It could be detected neither visually nor electronically.

  Hawker waited until they were thirty yards from their headquarters, then flipped the toggle switch.

  He hadn’t used much Astrolite, but it achieved the proper effect. The explosion knocked them backward—from fear more than anything.

  The wall of their headquarters was engulfed in smoke and fire.

  As the smoke dissipated, the design Hawker had created was plain to see.

  A couple of the punks knelt in fear, crossing themselves.

  “The motherfucker pisses fire, man!”

  The others scattered, terrified.

  On the wall of their headquarters, in searing white flames, was the outline of a hawk.…

  four

  Hawker awoke just after dawn. He tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t.

  He got up, made hot tea, and went out to the porch.

  The house Jacob Hayes had leased for him was a neat bungalow of redwood and cedar, built on low stilts. Beyond the beach the Pacific Ocean spread away toward the horizon, lifting and rolling in glassy turquoise swells.

  The house was in a secluded area of craggy volcanic rock and palms. A hundred yards down the coast a few surfers were out catching the early breakers. Hawker watched them ride the sea, like bright leaves on a green wind.

  Farther down the beach high-rises shimmered through the damp sea breeze. Lines of thick copse marked the property boundaries of the bungalow, and Hawker suspected he was living between two beachside mansions.

  He finished his tea and stopped at the telephone. He picked it up, then put it down just as quickly. He wanted to call Virgil Kahl. But on the off chance the Kahls might have found a way to sleep after their night of hell, Hawker decided to try later.

  He pulled on his Nikes and a pair of running shorts and jogged off down the beach.

  Hawker started slow with a long smooth gait, then picked up speed until he was running at about a seven-minute-mile pace. Sand crunched beneath his feet. Sea gulls whirled above, chiding. He passed a few other joggers: a man in an expensive warmup suit and Italian sunglasses; a striking brunette in a tiny bikini top that strained to contain her improbably large breasts.

  Neither of them smiled or waved.

  Hawker ran about two miles down the beach. The sweat was pouring nicely, matting the copper-colored hair on his chest. He turned and ran back.

  Not far from his bungalow he overtook a stunning blonde who jogged calf-deep through the surf. Her neck-length hair was tied back with a blue wind ribbon. The compact weight of her breasts moved in rhythm with the long mahogany legs, and she carried her arms just right, elbows pumping, thighs driving as she seemed to glide through the water.

  It took Hawker only a moment to assess her as one of the rare mixtures: a fine woman athlete who also happened to be quite beautiful.

  Her running was more like a purposeful dance, and Hawker fought away the urge to slow—or just stop—and watch her for a while.

  He sped on past, noticing that she turned her head away so she would not have to make eye contact with him.

  Nice people in Los Angeles, Hawker thought. Real friendly folks.

  He began to pick up his own pace, determined to sprint the last two hundred yards to his cottage.

  But the scream stopped him: a surprised female whoop followed by a painful string of profanities.

  Hawker skidded to a halt and saw that the blonde had fallen. She managed to get her legs under her again, then hobbled toward the beach, a torn expression on her face. She looked as though she was in agony.

  Hawker ran to her, got her arms around his neck, and helped the woman to the beach, where she sat down heavily.

  “Ah, damn, that hurts,” she said, half-crying. She was massaging the bottom of her right foot. She wore no shoes.

  “Did you sprain your ankle or—”

  “No … Christ … something stung me. It was like being electrocuted.”

  Firmly, Hawker forced the woman’s hands away so he could see. There was a black puncture hole in the pad of her foot. The flesh around it was red, already beginning to swell.

  “Do you have stingrays around here?”

  The blonde had her eyes squinched tight, her head thrown back. The face was as beautiful as the rest of her. There was something very familiar about the face, but Hawker couldn’t place her. “Stingrays?” She grimaced. “Shit, I don’t know.”

  “I think you do. I think you just got stung.”

  Her eyes flashed open: a bright watercolor blue. “Goddamn, I’m not gonna die, am I?” The alarm on her face was real.

  Hawker tried not to smile. “I don’t think so. You just need something for the pain.” He stood and gauged the distance to his cottage, then scooped her up in his arms. She smelled of a nice mixture of shampoo and fresh sweat.

  “Hey, are you a doctor or something?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then, maybe you just ought to call an ambulance—”

  “We’ll get the pain stopped, and then I’ll call anybody you want.”

  Hawker carried her across the beach and up the steps to his cottage. He shoveled her down on one of the plush couches and propped a pillow under her foot.

  “Still hurts?”

  “It’s throbbing like a son of a bitch,” she said between clenched teeth.

  Hawker hurried into the kitchen and began to rummage through cupboards. The place had been completely stocked, and Hawker knew it had to be there somewhere. He finally found what he was looking for, pried the lid off, and went back to the living room.

  “Meat tenderizer?” the woman asked incredulously.

  “Yep,” said Hawker, as he plastered the white crystals over the stingray wound.

  “Where’d you get this cure, buddy—the National Enquirer?” She had been wiggling her foot away in pain, but she soon stopped. Her eyes grew wide. “Hey—it’s working! No kidding.” She flexed her foot experimentally. “Hell, the pain’s almost completely gone already.” She beamed at him as he returned to the kitchen.

  Chuckling, Hawker drew a bucket of warm water. He emptied the rest of the meat tenderizer into it and placed the woman’s foot in the bucket.

  “Let it soak for a few minutes. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to give your doctor a call later. You want something to drink?”

  “Sure. Beer, if you have it.”

  Hawker went to the refrigerator. On the bottom rack were rows of Guinness and Tuborg in bottles. Jacob Montgomery Hayes took good care of him. He cracked open a bottle of Tuborg and checked his watch.

  It was eight twenty.

  He uncapped another bottle for himself and carried them into the living room. She was lounging back on the couch, her foot thrust out into the pail. She had high, Germanic cheeks, a delicate nose and chin, and quick, intelligent eyes. The blue wind-band made her eyes seem even bluer. At first glance she looked to be in her mid-twenties. But the roughened skin on the backs of her hands and the cobweb lines at the edge of her eyes told Hawker his first impression was wrong. She had to be in her early or middle thirties.

  It didn’t detract from the beauty of her. She had the body of an eighteen-year-old.

 
Hawker handed her the beer, and she downed part of it in long, shameless gulps.

  “Ah … that’s better.” She smiled, her eyes dreamy. Hawker studied her closely. He couldn’t shake the impression that he had seen her somewhere before. Then it dawned on him: the movies. Films. She was an actress. Melanie St. John. He had seen her in a major role opposite Gene Hackman, and in a smaller part with Robert Redford.

  In both films she had played the reserved but sturdy country beauty. Clean of mind, clean of body. She was a lot prettier—and seemed a lot smaller—in real life.

  Her language was more interesting, too.

  “Soak as long as you want,” Hawker said. “I’m going to finish my workout. And in case I don’t see you again”—Hawker held out his hand, which she shook absently—“it’s been nice meeting you.”

  “Hey!” she called after him. Hawker stopped in the open door. “You’re not leaving already, are you?” She seemed to check herself in midsentence, as if wondering why she would be inquiring into the plans of a stranger. “I mean”—she hesitated—“I don’t even know your name. And I haven’t even thanked you.”

  “Hawker. James Hawker. No thanks are necessary. Just pull the door tight when you leave.”

  Hawker returned to the beach.

  The sun was higher and hotter now. A sea breeze battled the smog, and the sky was as pale as Melanie St. John’s eyes.

  Hawker pulled his shoes off’ and set his Seiko Submariner watch. He decided to swim for thirty minutes. Fifteen minutes straight out, toward Hawaii. Fifteen minutes back.

  He fought his way through the first set of waves, shouldering through them like a linebacker. He began to swim.

  At no time in his life could he think more clearly than when he was swimming or running—unless it was in the middle of a fire fight.

  The water was cold. It lifted and rolled, so he was either battling his way uphill or sliding down the backside of a wave.

  By the time he made it back to the beach, he felt spent but fresh. He fell back-first on the sand, his feet still in the water. He crossed his arms over his eyes to keep out the sun.

  “Quite a demonstration,” a woman’s voice said.

  Hawker opened his eyes without moving. Melanie St. John stood over him.

  “You should be home resting that foot.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t a doctor.” Her laughter was woodwindlike. “I’m wearing a pair of your shoes. My name’s Melanie, by the way. I figure anyone who lets me use his shoes deserves to know my first name.”

  Hawker smiled and said nothing. He had long ago cultivated a private disinterest in public women. Politicians, singers, and actresses—their worlds seem to require them to be self-conscious beyond endurance. Worse, it made them damn boring dates.

  Even so, there was something about this woman Hawker liked. She sat down in the sand beside, him. Hawker could see the firm curve of her right thigh and calf, and he could see that she was wearing his wornout pair of Nikes.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” Hawker opened his eyes again. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Yeah—and you should be glad. The tipoff was that you didn’t ask me what I’m into or what my horoscope sign is, or where my head is at, or if I’m working on any projects’ right now. Everything in L.A., by the way, is a project or a property. Also, you haven’t used the expressions ‘wow’ or ‘rad’—as in radical—even once.”

  “Wow,” said Hawker. “Imagine that.”

  She laughed. “The only thing you’ve done even remotely like a man from L.A. is not make an immediate pass at me.”

  “California men don’t make passes?”

  “The gay ones don’t. And sometimes it seems like ninety percent of them are gay.” She underlined the implied question by adding, “Not that I disapprove in a moral sense; I don’t go around trying to offend—”

  “Sometimes I’m gay,” said Hawker.

  “Oh … oh?”

  “Gay—as in pleasantly trouble-free. The other kind of gay doesn’t interest me.” He opened his eyes and winked at her. “How about you?”

  “Straight as Old Glory’s stripes,” she said theatrically.

  “Is that why they’re always giving you those all-American girl parts?”

  “You have seen my films.” She laughed. “I’m just getting well known enough to pretend I don’t like being recognized, and then you come along and treat me like a teen-ager with braces. It was quite a blow to my ego. I was determined to follow you around until I made you realize—subtly, of course—that I am a damn famous actress. Did you know there are no hammers in that bungalow of yours? I looked.”

  “Hey, I fixed your foot, didn’t I?”

  “And an amazing cure it was, too.” She stood, brushing sand from her shorts, then tested her right leg experimentally. “Almost good as new. Where’d you learn that meat tenderizer trick?”

  “I spent some time in Florida this winter. They’ve got more stingrays there than mobile homes—and that’s saying something.”

  “What are you, a professional beach bum?”

  “With a piddling tan like this?”

  “I’m surprised you tan at all with that copper-colored hair of yours. Anyway … James? Or is it Mr. Hawker?”

  “My father was Mr. Hawker. I’m anything you want to call me.”

  “Hawk, then. That fits you: sort of sleek and stern. Hey—you’re not interested in becoming an actor, are you? Or maybe you already—”

  “Don’t worry.” He laughed. “I’m not going to ask you to introduce me to your producer friends. One of my few talents is knowing what I do or don’t want to do. And I don’t want to be an actor.”

  She seemed relieved, continuing, “Anyway, Hawk, I want to thank you for helping this morning. I’m having a few friends over tonight. You know, a little party. I’ll have some food and maybe even a beer or two.… How about stopping by?”

  “I may have an appointment. I’m not sure.”

  She thrust her hands on her hips. “As a famous actress, I’m not used to being brushed off,” she said with mock severity.

  Hawker sat up, grinning. “What time?”

  “Oh, ten maybe. Or later. Parties start late in L.A.”

  “If I can, I’ll be there.”

  “Great!” she called, already limping away. “That’s my place on the left, right beside yours.” She motioned toward a redwood, multilevel mansion hidden behind trees. “Getting lost on the way will be considered a really shitty excuse!”

  five

  Hawker ate three apples for lunch and drank a quart of water. Finally, he summoned enough courage to call Virgil Kahl. The phone rang nine times, and Hawker was just about to hang up when Kahl answered.

  His voice sounded infinitely weary.

  “I’m glad to hear from you, James, but I’m really not up to talking. Did you listen to the news this morning? Our … our daughter was murdered last night.” His voice broke slightly, and Kahl struggled to keep control of himself. “Our dear little Julie. Dead. My God, I still can’t accept it.…”

  Hawker listened and said nothing. Any words of comfort, any offer to help, he knew, would only hurt the grieving man more.

  “They found her early this morning,” Kahl continued. “Those … those animals did it! The Panthers! They murdered our poor little girl!”

  “Virgil,” Hawker said gently, “if you would like to wait a month or so to continue our project, I’ll certainly understand. In fact, it might be best if I just left—”

  “No!” Kahl interrupted. Understandably, he was transforming all of his hurt into anger. “I’m even more determined to stop them now, James. We must! We have to fight these creatures. There comes a time when even civilized people must drop the sham of reason and take up arms. It’s time to fight, James, and we need you now more than ever.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Virgil.”

  “While we … we were awaiting word from the police last night, I called all the men on
our original neighborhood watch force. I suggested a meeting at one of our members’ homes. Eight thirty tonight. I see no reason to call the meeting off. In fact, I think we have even more reason to go ahead with the plans.”

  “Who should I ask for?”

  “A man named John Cranshaw. Oh, and James—don’t be surprised if the reception you get from some of the members is a little cool. Some of them didn’t like the idea of an outsider coming in to help. Especially watch for a man named Sully McGraw. He can be a—” In the background Kahl was interrupted by a high, wailing cry. “Oh, lord,” he said shakily. “My wife’s woken up again. She’s gone quite mad, James.… I’ve got to call the doctor. I’m sorry.…”

  Hawker jotted down the hasty address Kahl gave him and hung up, feeling both sorrow and frustration.

  He needed information. He had to find a way to go to the very source of the gangs, find out who or what motivated them, and for what purpose.

  He couldn’t just go on killing the punks one by one.

  But for the time being it was the only plan of attack he had.

  And until something better came along, it would have to do.…

  Just after seven Hawker slid into his rented Cutlass and drove down Highland Avenue, parallel to the beach.

  The sun was evaporating westward, toward Japan.

  More surfers were out, the pretty surfing groupies trotting heavy-breasted down the beach, their nylon bikinis the color of psychedelic Easter eggs.

  Hawker had never seen a heavier concentration of beautiful girls in his life. Driving through early-Saturday-night traffic, he decided it must be because, during the nineteen thirties and forties, every good-looking, out-of-work man and woman in the country probably gravitated to Hollywood, dreaming of stardom.

  Few of them made it, of course.

  Those who didn’t probably settled for menial jobs. And dull marriages.

  But they certainly had produced some beautiful babies.

  Hawker stopped at a Greek restaurant, ate two gyros with extra sauce, and bought the afternoon paper.